


strip

by annejumps



Category: Split (2016), Split - Fandom
Genre: Coercion, F/M, Manhandling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 14:49:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9662048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps
Summary: He sighs again. “This is going to be a lot easier if you take your clothes off instead of making me do it for you.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the following prompt on the [Split Kink Meme](http://split-kink-meme.dreamwidth.org/): "Dennis just wants to see her dance. (Casey wasn't able to hold onto Marcia, and therefore was unable to relay her message. Marcia is taken to the other room.)"

Marcia screams, kicks, and struggles, but he doesn’t let her go until he’s good and ready, setting her down to stand on the floor. She immediately starts trying to slap at him, but her slaps are weak and he easily takes hold of her wrists. She kicks at his shins, but at the look he gives her and the growl low in his throat, she stops.

She glances around wildly. They’re in a small room, with no windows, and the doors look locked. There’s nothing close enough to grab to hit him with, even if she could, before he’d be able to hurt her. Eventually she drags her gaze back to his impassive face.

“I want you to dance with me,” he says, watching her intently.

She starts to sob, she can’t help it. She’s barely aware of Claire banging on the door and shouting.

“Take off your clothes,” he says, releasing her wrists.

She shakes her head frantically, breathing faster to the point where she’s almost hyperventilating. “No,” she manages to gasp, “please don’t make me.” 

He sighs, like he’s patiently waiting for her to understand. His voice is still quiet, but there’s a thread of frustration now. “Take everything off.” His hands are hovering near hers, prepared to grab her again if need be.

“Please!”

He sighs again. “This is going to be a lot easier if you take your clothes off instead of making me do it for you.”

That draws a small scream of panic from her. Hot tears rolling down her face, she bends to take off her shoes, fingers fumbling on the straps. The floor is cold under her stockinged feet.

Arms folded now, he’s still watching her, brow furrowed. She’s stuck between wanting to go as slowly as possible, stalling until something or someone interrupts, and going quickly, getting it over with. The tears are still rolling down her face.

She takes off her denim vest, and her breasts feel exposed even though she hasn’t taken off her sweater. What would leave her least naked next? Her thigh-highs. Next, her skirt. She can barely see now from the tears in her eyes, but she keeps blinking them away. Still he watches, silent.

She peels off her tights, and is standing there in her underwear and sweater. She meets his gaze, pleading, as she takes off her necklace and drops it to the floor. 

“Please,” she says hoarsely, but he just presses his lips together.

Claire’s still banging on the door and shouting, but the bangs are weaker now and her voice sounds hoarse. 

Sobbing anew, she slowly takes off her sweater. 

He’s looking her over, eyes drinking her in like he’s starved for her, but he’s still got that tight controlled look to him, despite the fact that his face is red now.

“Everything” is all he says.

She has to close her eyes as she reaches to undo the clasp of her bra. Then, as she draws her bra off, she wants to look at the floor, but that means looking at her nakedness, so she closes her eyes again, hot tears squeezing out once more. Her nipples harden in the coolness of the room. She opens her eyes, but can’t look at him, or herself. 

Now she’s only postponing the inevitable.

Hurriedly, she takes off her panties, and steps out of them, almost tripping. She desperately wants to cover herself, and puts an arm over her breasts and a hand over her crotch before he firmly pulls them away from her. He holds her wrists again, and looks her over, almost reverent.

“You are so beautiful,” he tells her. 

Now she’s not even making noise when she cries, and she seems to be out of tears. Claire has stopped shouting and banging on the door. 

Letting her wrists go, he walks behind her, deliberate and slow. She doesn’t dare to move, teeth jittering, and closes her eyes reflexively when she feels his hands on her hips, framing them. 

“I want to see you dance,” he says, low, and it makes her shiver. She bites her lip.

“No,” she croaks, because there’s no way that’s all he wants, this is just the start. 

His strong hands move her hips, making her sway, slowly, from side to side. Clearly he’s guiding her to do what he wants. 

She swallows hard, and reluctantly goes with the movement, repeating it and rocking unsteadily on her feet. He walks in front of her again, gaze raking her up and down, and she keeps swaying, a parody of a shimmy, too scared to stop moving. Trembling slightly, she tries to keep her concentration, to keep moving in some semblance of rhythm, although it’s not like there’s any music, the only sound being the rush of her breathing and her heart pounding.

What he sees must be graceful enough for him, though, because the tip of his tongue glides out as he licks his lips, like his mouth is dry, like he can’t help it.

Before she can react to that, he steps close and pulls her against him, one hand warm on the small of her back and the other cupping the back of her neck. She jumps, a strangled cry in her throat, but he’s got her too close, there’s no wiggle room. She’s never felt more naked, more exposed, than this, her entire bare front rubbing against his clothing. 

Paralyzed, in stark terror she doesn’t move, arms hanging limply; he’s basically holding her up, close against him. He’s moving, though, swaying like she had been, until he stops abruptly.

He sighs then, almost a growl, and she watches his face change: the tension drops from his muscles, his lips relax, his brow arches. “Oh, Dennis,” he says in an exasperated tone, but it’s an entirely different voice, it’s a woman’s voice, in an English accent. Marcia is released, and the man—the woman? clasps his—her? hands together. 

Marcia can’t even move, her mouth open in a wordless scream.

“I”m so sorry, dear,” he—she—says, eyes focusing on Marcia’s. Her eyes are kind, yet—not. “He knows he’s not allowed to do this, he knows you are meant for important things, things that don’t include his… alarming perversions.” She frowns exaggeratedly, shaking her head, and then bends over to pluck Marcia’s clothes up from where they’re scattered around. Marcia, seeing her chance, scrambles and fumbles to pick up what the woman does not. 

“I’ll just let you get dressed again, now, won’t I,” the... woman continues, passing Marcia the rest of her clothes and then going to open the door. Behind it, Claire’s and Casey’s faces are pale rictuses of terror; they’re silent, staring. Clutching her clothes to cover herself, Marcia stumbles back into the room.

“He wanted me to dance with him,” she whispers to the others, as the door closes behind her.


End file.
